A Tough World on the Stupid Little People

It has taken me quite a long time to finish the novel I'm currently reading, although I am in no hurry to finish, even though I'm 50 or so pages away. I'm fond of long novels because I want the author to take his or her time building the characters, and all that shit. If a character is ham-handedly crammed into the story to bug the protagonist, or the antagonist, or whomever, and is poorly fleshed-out, I drop the book and move on. It's acceptable for a "B" movie, but not a novel.

Ever since I read Les Miserables by Victor Hugo many years ago, even before I opened my peepers to Vonnegut, I'd gotten into the habit of reading every chapter twice before moving on. Hugo's massive digression to the Battle of Waterloo had me baffled at the time; I was 14 or so. Not that my age has a damn thing to do with it, because it's a famous literary digression which most people react to the same way ("What the fuck?"). So I read the Waterloo chapter twice, to make sure Valjean or Cosette weren't hiding behind a cannon, or something. Now I do it all the time. Those people who read a novel every other day have my admiration, but I wonder how much they absorb. My mother used to do that, mostly pulp crime novels of the sort that are so perpetually popular. She read so many of them that she would sometimes buy one and then later realize that she had already read it. It reminds me of the Woody Allen quote about "speed-reading." He said, "I just read War and Peace. It's about Russia."

But some people manage to read fast and retain everything. They are called, "smart" and not nearly as common as most people believe. Most people, as you may already know, are nincompoops, boobs and/or dimwits. I'm not any of those things, but I do have my head up my ass. Fortunately for most of us, the Universe suffers fools as well as anyone else.

After The Terror I'm going to hit another Dan Simmons novel. I really dig the historical fiction genre, like The Alienist by Caleb Carr and Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett.

Isn't that nice?

Anyway, Apocalypse Cow left a comment about the previous post, about an atheist soldier in the US military. What he wrote reminded me of Vonnegut's Hocus Pocus. Regarding atheists in foxholes, Vonnegut writes:

The sermon was based on what [the Chaplain] claimed was a well-known fact, that there were no Atheists in foxholes. I asked Jack what he thought of the sermon afterwards, and he said, "There's a Chaplain who never visited the front."
-- Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Hocus Pocus

Atheist soldier claims harassment

This comes from my brother, Kent.

DWL

Atheist soldier claims harassment

JUNCTION CITY, Kansas (AP) -- Like hundreds of young men joining the Army in recent years, Jeremy Hall professes a desire to serve his country while it fights terrorism.

art.atheist.ap.jpg

Soldier Jeremy Hall says the pressure to believe in God is so strong "I was ashamed to say that I was an atheist."

But the short and soft-spoken specialist is at the center of a legal controversy. He has filed a lawsuit alleging he's been harassed and his constitutional rights have been violated because he doesn't believe in God. The suit names Defense Secretary Robert Gates.

"I'm not in it for cash," Hall said. "I want no one else to go what I went through."

Known as "the atheist guy," Hall has been called immoral, a devil worshipper and -- just as severe to some soldiers -- gay, none of which, he says, is true. Hall even drove fellow soldiers to church in Iraq and paused while they prayed before meals.

"I see a name and rank and United States flag on their shoulder. That's what I believe everyone else should see," he said.

Hall, 23, was raised in a Protestant family in North Carolina and dropped out of school. It wasn't until he joined the Army that he began questioning religion, eventually deciding he couldn't follow any faith.

But he feared how that would look to other soldiers.

"I was ashamed to say that I was an atheist," Hall said.

It eventually came out in Iraq in 2007, when he was in a firefight. Hall was a gunner on a Humvee, which took several bullets in its protective shield. Afterward, his commander asked whether he believed in God, Hall said.

"I said, 'No, but I believe in Plexiglas,"' Hall said. "I've never believed I was going to a happy place. You get one life. When I die, I'm worm food."

The issue came to a head when, according to Hall, a superior officer, Maj. Freddy J. Welborn, threatened to bring charges against him for trying to hold a meeting of atheists in Iraq. Welborn has denied Hall's allegations.

Hall said he had had enough but feared he wouldn't get support from Welborn's superiors. He turned to Mikey Weinstein and the Military Religious Freedom Foundation.

Weinstein is the foundation's president and a U.S. Air Force Academy graduate. He had previously sued the Air Force for acts he said illegally imposed Christianity on students at the academy, though that case was dismissed. He calls Hall a hero.

"The average American doesn't have enough intestinal fortitude to tell someone to shut up if they are talking in a movie theater," Weinstein said. "You know how hard it is to take on your chain of command? This isn't the shift manager at KFC."

Hall was in Qatar when the lawsuit was filed on September 18 in federal court in Kansas City, Kansas. Other soldiers learned of it and he feared for his own safety. Once, Hall said, a group of soldiers followed him, harassing him, but no one did anything to make it stop.

The Army told him it couldn't protect him and sent him back to Fort Riley. He resumed duties with a military police battalion. He believes his promotion to sergeant has been blocked because of his lawsuit, but he is a team leader responsible for two junior enlisted soldiers.

No one with Fort Riley, the Army or Defense Department would comment about Hall or the lawsuit. Each issued statements saying that discrimination will not be tolerated regardless of race, religion or gender.

"The department respects [and supports by its policy] the rights of others to their own religious beliefs, including the right to hold no beliefs," said Eileen Lainez, a spokeswoman for the Department of Defense.

All three organizations said existing systems help soldiers "address and resolve any perceived unfair treatment."

Lt. Col. David Shurtleff, a Fort Riley chaplain, declined to discuss Hall's case but said chaplains accommodate all faiths as best they can. In most cases, religious issues can be worked out without jeopardizing military operations.

"When you're in Afghanistan and an IED blows up a Humvee, they aren't asking about a wounded soldier's faith," Shurtleff said.

Hall said he enjoys being a team leader but has been told that having faith would make him a better leader.

"I will take care of my soldiers. Nowhere does it say I have to pray with my soldiers, but I do have to make sure my soldiers' religious needs are met," he said.

"Religion brings comfort to a lot of people," he said. "Personally, I don't want it or need it. But I'm not going to get down on anybody else for it."

Hall leaves the Army in April 2009. He would like to find work with the National Park Service or Environmental Protection Agency, anything outdoors.

"I hope this doesn't define me," Hall said of his lawsuit. "It's just about time somebody said something."

Copyright 2008 The Associated Press

An Odd Disappearance, Part One

A smiling, totally bald and very tall FBI agent named Pilf Masner approaches a podium, clears his throat and acknowledges a large cardboard photograph on an easel nearby. The photograph is of an unattractive, disheveled fat man in a t-shirt. He motions as if he is about to begin his presentation, but pauses briefly before doing so as he reads a note handed to him a minute before. After a moment he begins. The smile disappears and those present provide polite attention to the imposing middle-aged man.

"This is the last known photograph of Darren W. Lyle, which was taken by Mr. Lyle with his "webcam" on the morning of April 29, 2008. As you can see, he's a handsome young man with mistaken faith in the aesthetic appeal of his beard."

Pilf Masner pauses, ostensibly to allow his audience to appreciate his joke. The room is quiet until he continues.

"Many of you are familiar with the details of this case, either through personal experience in the department or through the media. That said, I want you to all approach this case anew, to consider the details with an open mind. In the last year, much has been said about the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Lyle and that will make it hard to be disinterested, but we must endeavor to do so. We are professionals.

"Our team is made up of representatives from law enforcement agencies around the world. Your job will be to guide them in their investigations and make progress, while at the same time withholding classified information from your fellow investigators. Naturally, this will not be easy, but those are your orders. I have no doubt in your abilities at reconciliation.

"You'll find the classified elements of the case in a sealed red envelope that is being circulated around the room by Lt. Krikorian of the FBI, as you all know he was present at the event and will be speaking to you momentarily. The Red Envelope and it's contents are not to leave the room. You may view the contents any time you like, but absolutely no copies are to be made. I wish you luck ladies and gentleman. I'm going to let Lt. Krikorian go over the details of the event with you now. Thank you."

There is no applause, and an awkward moment when Agent Pilf Masner's tie gets snagged on the cheap, flake-board podium. Masner tries to laugh it off, but most pretend not to notice, or are indifferent. Agent Pilf Masner is not well-liked.

Agent Alvis Krikorian gracefully ascends the three steps to the podium, but first acknowledges the presence of a friend nearby. He then produces a loud, single cough and begins speaking.

"Thank you, Agent Masner, I'll be brief in my little talk here today, at least regarding the more famous aspects of the disappearance and subsequent catastrophe. We all know that on April 29, 2008, the City of Boston was destroyed by a wave of Bavarian creme that originated at the corner of Tremont and Park Streets, and that it originated from the body of Darren W. Lyle. We also know that Mr. Lyle spoke for five minutes as he hovered above the Gardner Brewer fountain. Four different security cameras, and one cell phone recovered from the scene, show this plainly."

Alvis Krikorian opens and then sips from a bottle of water left for him on the podium, and continues.

"That's what we know, ladies and gentleman, as surely as we know our names. Until now, however, we didn't know what Mr. Lyle said as he sailed above the assembled crowd like a Macy's float. Now we know."

Several members of the audience, all law enforcement and intelligence people, looked at each other. The red envelope was not circulating around the room. Instead, three agents were studying the photograph and paper it held carefully, and it was annoying the other 36 people in the room.

Agent Krikorian could see that this was a problem, and motioned for the red envelope and folder to be passed to him. Within a minute, Alvis Krikorian had the folder open and in front of him on the podium. After a brief conversation with two other agents, he spoke.

"Ok, listen up everyone, given the time constraints, and the importance of digesting this new information before you return to your respective units, I'm going to go over what we have here. It's not complicated, but important." Agent Alvis Krikorian seemed annoyed.

"First, let me go over time revised time-line, shall we?" His attention turned to the paper, from which he read.

"Ok, let's see. At 9:40am on the day in question Mr. Lyle stood in a crowd of approximately 400 people, mostly tourists and State House workers, near the Brewer Fountain on Boston Common near the Park Street subway station. Video forensic analysis was done, and this can be clearly seen from several angles. It is, however, impossible to know what he said, up until now, but I'll return to that in a moment."

Most of the assembled sighed or shifted their weight; they wanted to get to the classified file. Alvis continued. "What we do know is that at 9:47 Mr. Lyle disappeared, and in his place was a pistachio nut, about the size of a...pistachio nut. The nut kept talking, apparently, as it still drew the rapt attention of everyone in ear-shot. At 9:49, Mr. Lyle re-appeared briefly and turned back into the nut exactly one minute later, at 9:50 and 48 seconds, and was never seen or heard from again."

None of this information was new to anyone. Much like the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, the events of April 29, 2008 were known to everyone within a few weeks. A year had passed since the incredibly odd disappearance and subsequent Bavarian creme flood that killed 291,000 people. Alvis Krikorian continued.

"At 9:52am, complete disaster. The creme originated from the pistachio nut itself as it hovered. We've all seen the security video. Now, to the contents of the red envelope." Krikorian wasted no time reading from the classified document.

You Don't Know Where That Finger's Been

Second post in a day, but I have to share this amusing tidbit. While I was tooling around the Internet, I found a website for Islamic children. The front page reads, "By children, for children, (with adult supervision, of course)." It sounded perfectly benign, and I was looking for a picture from an Islamic puppet show (I'm not going to lie to you, it's a sad fact). When I entered the site I noticed that they were pushing an article entitled, "A Brief Historical Survey of Jewish Persecution" and I became aware that the site was going to deliver religious propaganda to innocent weans. So blatant and obvious that it's almost as if the site were mocking itself.

Naturally, the young Palestinian author (under the guidance of adults) decides to let the Jews have it. How predictable can you get? For fuck's sake, kid, are you always on?

He contends that the Wretched Jews are to be pitied, but they were wrong for invading Palestine. The word wretched aside, it's a reasonable opinion. But a couple of pages in, the phone comes off the hook, the horse escapes the barn, the connection is lost, something. With all the subtly of a sledgehammer to the noggin:

They [Europe and the US after WWII) gave the Jews a free hand – and also very generous support – to set up a state that would call for the ethnic cleansing of the people living there. That state, under the watchful eyes of its benefactors, uprooted centuries-old towns and villages, rudely disrupted the prevailing atmosphere of peace and tolerance, and instead brought misery and suffering to the bewildered, yet helpless inhabitants. It upset the harmonious equilibrium that had been in place for more than a few centuries, and began a new genocide against the Palestinians.

Harmonious equilibrium? I've never seen that anywhere, let alone the Middle East.

And the moral of the story is that a couple of minutes later, I found my puppet picture, once again proving that this is the best of all possible worlds. God smiles down upon us all like Step n Fetchit hovering hungrily over a piece of watermelon. Just without the racism.

Manhood On Display and a Dusty Flat

The picture of Alfred Hitchcock offering up a "suggestion" amuses me terribly. Right now, I'm sitting here sipping on coffee and listening to the dog breathing heavily behind me. It's supposed to be sunny today, and mild, which I do like but only under the right conditions. Direct sunlight makes me feel dirty and wretched, like some black, slimy thing from Lord of the Rings. I even painted the top half of my window with green oil-based paint I had in a little artists' kit. The sun also picks up the dust in my flat, no matter how much I clean, and that bugs me.

Some wind would be nice. It offers a distraction from me. The universe can't be judging me during a wind storm, or a storm of any kind. This fair weather, however, makes me feel like I'm in the spotlight, as if the world were looking at me and waiting for me to do something of consequence. Since that is highly unlikely, I'm left feeling like a failure. All because of the weather. It may be odd, I'm not sure anymore.

I definitely did something hairy to my right index finger when I punched the wall last week. The wall was really asking for it, though. It is healing and fading into another insane memory. Because of that little episode last week, I've decided to start taking risperdal. For the first time in my life I'm afraid to start a new medication, even though I was on it for awhile several years ago. When I start a strong psychiatric drug I'm a bit fearful of the two familiar potential side effects of just about every anti-psychotic; tardive dyskenesia and Neuroleptic Malignancy Syndrome (NMS). They are both very rare, but my roommate in the bin developed tardive dyskenesia and it wasn't pretty. I don't even know if he is alive.

For all I know they chucked him into the harbor.

More than likely, the only thing that will happen is aches and pains, coupled with sleepiness. At the very worst I'll have a seizure, which doesn't bother me because I'm not around for those, anyway. The last time I had one I woke up in the hospital feeling beaten up. There was also a scratch just above my penis, in a forest of pubic hair. I theorize that someone tried to give my wang mouth-to-mouth (mouth-to-pecker), and I got scratched in the kerfuffle.

Remind me to get my eyeglass prescription filled. Every movie I watch looks like an Impressionist painting, what with the blurriness. I thought Bridge to Terabithia was another remake of Wages of Fear, with a rope swing instead of a truck full of nitroglycerin.

Last night I couldn't sleep, so I sat in The Green Room and read The Terror. As is my habit, I was buck naked at the time, since that is how I sleep. So at 2am I walked around the room, got my book, and sat down to read. Then I noticed the Smoking Man outside the flat across the courtyard and street. He was working a little too hard at trying to seem nonchalant. Thus, it seems likely that he saw my flippin' and floppin' lazy bishop. Dr. Seuss calls it a, "Wangdoodle."

I wasn't even on a trampoline, this was just my normal floppin' around. The next thing I knew, he was knocking on my door with a very unusual request.

OK, that last part was a joke.

Take With Water

Several years ago, Chinese testicle thieves sneaked into my flat in Lawrence, Massachusetts and stole by balls. I woke up in the tub, freezing cold and covered in tube ice. Although that never happened, it was terrifying.

After Monday's Festival of Douchebaggery I've found a modicum of solace in preparing for my appointment later today at Somerville Mental Health. I'm going over my copious notes on all the drugs I've taken, and done some lazy research online, in an attempt to find something that will make my insanity more bearable. There aren't that many proven anti-psychotics from which to choose, except lithium, which I'm already on. The therapeutic dose for lithium carbonate, which I've been taking for years, is just under the dose needed to kill me. So there isn't much to work with there, as far as an increased dose goes.

I'm going to ask about Geodon, which is a relatively new anti-psychotic that works well with mixed state bipolar disorder. It would also be wise for me to report all the drugs, booze and weed I'm sucking down.

Any thoughts?

A Bad Week

Today is the first day that I've been at my computer for more than 10 minutes all week. That is unusual for me, and is indicative of my mental state, which deteriorated rather dramatically and painfully on Monday morning. I found myself, after my normal morning anxiety attack (how I loathe them), ensconced in a frame of mind that had me seriously considering checking into the nuthouse.

What happened? I don't know. I'm no closer to understanding what causes these episodes than I was when I was first hospitalized in 1998. It feels like being under attack, and that's not good. It's not good because I'm not under attack from anyone. No harsh criticisms are voiced or judgments leveled, at least from other people. I'm always the recipient of bitter, nasty, dark and cruel thoughts that are merciless and constant. It's a withering barrage. My inability to cope with said comments either shows how weak I am, or that I'm genuinely up against something that normal people don't have to worry about. Or maybe it's both.

Back in 1998, I went to the Boston Evening Clinic in Boston. The union for which I worked offered all sorts of health benefits, and I went in to see a psychiatrist, looking for answers. They gave me Prozac, of course, which is a bad idea if the fellow you're giving it to is bipolar. Two weeks later there was all the drama of an attempted overdose, complete with stomach pumping, restraints, and a 2 week visit to a locked psychiatric ward; The Arbor in Jamaica Plain. The Arbor turned out to be very educational. They put me in the men's "dormitory," which was (and probably still is) essentially a very large room with beds and broken-minded people who happened to have a penis. I'm pretty confident that that wasn't all that helpful, although aspects are burned into my memory. But the "interview" that preceded it was extremely efficacious.

It was in that meeting that a plump, tired and kind woman promised me a couple of things. One, I would never be "cured" of clinical depression, hypomania or any of the various personality disorders from which I suffer. And two, medication and therapy would make my mental illness endurable. If the worst of it wasn't over, she assured me, it soon would be. Help was on the way.

I liked to think that not a soul would blame me if I flung myself in front of a bus, given my pathetic condition. I now know that there really are people who would be upset, although I honestly and sincerely don't completely understand why. After I took some good natured ribbing from my friends Adam and Mikhail (Adam actually sent me a letter in the nuthouse that basically mocked me for fucking up a suicide, I found it comforting) I set out to approach my madness scientifically. No hypnotizing or acupuncture for me. Many, many different prescriptions were tried, as well as group and individual therapy. Eventually I settled on Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) and chose a weekly group.

Now it is 2008, and as I sit here my heart is in my throat. There is fear that I may lose my mind entire and do something terrible, to myself or someone else (although that is a fear I've had all my life). There is also that withering voice that whispers not-so-sweet nothings in my ear, as it were. The "voice," I'm told, is my inner monologue; It's not like my schizophrenic uncle who endured a commanding voice that compelled odd actions.

Instead, guilt and a desire to make the world a better place, and to end the fucking paranoid shit sandwiches I have to keep eating, compel me to end it. Kurt Vonnegut, who suffered from a terrible depression before he mercifully croaked, said that he dealt with suicidal thoughts his whole life. So it can be done. The guilt, self-loathing, paranoia and depression, on the other hand, make it such an attractive option.

Another bothersome aspect of this is that my illness compels behavior that is sometimes totally indistinguishable from the actions of any run-of-the-mill asshole. Mental illness or no, I haven't the right to treat people the way I sometimes do. Punching walls and yelling about this and that can't be tolerated, by me or anyone else. That's why I felt strongly on Monday about going to the nuthouse (even a polo mallet to the head would have been an appealing option at the time). I obviously didn't, and I do feel better, but how much of this nonsense (albeit infrequent these days) should I allow to continue? At some point, my insanity may impel me towards unacceptable behavior in general, not reserved to "episodes" every so often.

I live in fear of myself, and of the impact I have on them. Particularly, of course, those whom I love. If there only were a god I could blame. But there is only me.

Onward, however. Tomorrow I will reveal all this to my therapist and psychiatrist. Whatever help they offer, plus the passage of time, will help me get past this recent setback, I hope. Today I'm optimistic.